


Incite

by MissSavvy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Don't Read This, F/M, Kink Meme, Psychotropic Drugs, Roleplay - Teacher and Student, Spanking, what the hell did I just write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSavvy/pseuds/MissSavvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail wants to act out her sexual fantasies with a certain psychiatrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incite

**Author's Note:**

> A response to kink meme prompt:
> 
> "Abigail/Hannibal: Spanking, Roleplay. Abigail wants to be the naughty schoolgirl while Hannibal is the strict teacher."
> 
> \- First try at writing any sort of kink. I don't even know.

_Abigail Hobbs was one to prod._

* * *

 

The tiny brunette wasn't entirely young nor was she entirely stupid. The sheer thrill of the urge to act on her whims, rather, edged her on. Her few sexual experiences served only to ignite her curiosity. Pangs of agitation would eat away at her as she thought on them.  _Those_  limited experiences hadn't been as fulfilling as she'd had imagined them to be. At night she would remember the four week length of her relationship with Austin, or the time when she and Jason ended up  _doing it_  as a result of a dare at a drunken bonfire. She shifted – she could still feel ashes and twigs beneath her body.

Those boys, she mused; well… they were disposable and ultimately disappointing. Abigail would spend the rest of the evening conjuring fantasies in her mind that satisfied her in the ways she wished to feel satisfaction. None of them involved the fumbling fingertips of a teenager worrying with the clasp of her bra.

The first time she laid eyes on Hannibal Lecter, she was entranced.

He'd been with Will as the pair stood before her, appraising her condition. The doctor had hardly said a word; his presence, however, still had the ability to steal rightfully deserved attention. The subtle smirk he seemed to carry across his features let her know that he was well aware of the persona he carried. He didn't have to flaunt. He didn't have to try.

She was drawn to him and he had done absolutely nothing.

The weak feeling she experienced served to excite her. Though she'd been through a good deal in her young life, never before had someone been able to make her feel small, fragile, or weak. 

The first time she's invited over to his home she suppresses the urge to squeal with delight. A man such as Hannibal Lecter would find the action immature, surely.

Alana had bought her tasteful outfits. She wore them proudly, pleased to have something to wear that accented how she felt internally. They were modest selections, but also very feminine and adult-like. Her slim figure held the slopes of several curves – it made her happy to be able to accentuate them beneath the cling of a stylish sweater and the hug of expensive denim.

When offered to her, she drank the tea without much hesitation. She certainly wanted him to know she trusted him; the smile in his eyes that followed her first sip made her feel as though she could accomplish it.

The haze that swept over her that night didn't worry her. She was chipper and giggly, if not perfectly content.

Her frail arms hugged around his neck when he insisted she go to sleep. Her footing was wobbly on the staircase; he had swept her up in a delicate hold in order to ascend them with ease.

"Noooo."

"What is it, Abigail?"

Her breath laced his neck; she nuzzled against him shamelessly.

"Can't I stay up, Hannibal? I helped with dinner," she reminded him, stubbornly.

"You were indeed the perfect houseguest, Miss Hobbs. But it  _is_ rather late."

He could feel the spread of her drug-induced smile widen against the flesh of his neck. Her petite lips were wet upon his flesh.

"But I want to stay up. With  _you_."

Her distressing tone makes him chuckle lightly, the smile playing upon his pursed lips widens a fraction in response to it.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be much good company to you. I don't often entertain at this hour. I shall wake you first thing in the morning, however."

She sighs heavily against him with a frown marring her expression, "But I don't want to do _it_  in the morning."

"What don't you want to do in the morning, Abigail?"

He stops outside the door of one of his guest rooms, lowering her feet to the floor. Her arms are laced around his tall stature however, and she stands on the tips of her toes in order not to lose the grasp she wishes so desperately to maintain.

"Uhmm. Fuck you," she utters coyly, a sweetheart smile accompanying the slightest red tinge of her paled cheeks.

She isn't suprised by how unphased he seems. She reminds herself that he is always cool and collected. 

He tuts at her, prying her arms gently from off of his broad and accented shoulders.

"Such unbecoming language for a young girl, Abigail."

The brown haired teen grins sheepishly at his light insult, reveling at the sensation his fingers give to her as they trace down each of her arms in unison. She lets him hold her hands in his own larger ones. The pads of his thumbs work in rhythmic circles on the delicate patch of skin over her wrists as he looks down upon the young girl. He contemplates her with a subtle grin, taking in her reactions with gleaming curiosity.

He knows that her words are undoubtedly distorted. Still, he imagines the seed of her thought lingered below the surface of her mind long before she'd had a chance to indulge on the heavily spiked tea. It interests him.

"Have you ever even experienced such a thing, Miss Hobbs?"

"What?" she asks in a practiced - shy tone, "Being  _fucked_?"

The sensation of his grip tightening around her ivory wrists sends a wave of shock through her; his lips are pressed firmly together as he does so.

"Yes, that is what I am referring to – but do control your tongue."

She blinks a few times over, rapidly, before his hold slacks on her again. While she had grimaced at the feeling at first, her smile falls back into place and she answers him, "Yes."

He raises a brow to her, cocking his head to the side, "At such a young age?"

She giggles, mostly at his word choice, raising a brow of her own, "I'm not that young. I know what I want."

"Do you really, my dear? Do you know the consequences that follow for the sort of display that you are putting on at the moment?"

"Maybeee I'd like to," her murmur sweet, feigning innocence. He can't resist smirking down at her impulsiveness, releasing her hands. Rather than opening the door that they are standing before, he hesitates before making a turn.

"You won't stumble, will you?"

He beckons her with a gesture of his hand as he glides down the dimly lit hallway, "Do keep up with me, Abigail."

She's all but too chipper to catch up to him, mind buzzing with curiosity as she follows his precise strides. Her heart adopts a maniacal thud as it beats frantically against her ribcage – she is anxious.

Her eyes admire the dark, meticulously decorated room they enter. She assumes it to be his own judging by the size of the bed and quality of the crimson and black linen upon it. There is not much clutter – plenty of space to move around. Besides that of the bed, a high antiquated dresser rests along a beige-toned wall. A mahogany desk holding nothing but a neatly stacked pile of books rests opposite this.

There is a sudden leap in her heart when the suavity of the doctor's accent cuts through the room. Amidst her inner excitement, she wasn't aware of Hannibal having already taken to sitting upon the imposing bed. His presence is daunting even as he perches there calmly, beckoning her with nothing more than the direct tone of his voice.

"Come here, Abigail."

As she approaches him only a bit of hesitance is shown. That's expected, however. Upon reflection, she compares herself to a lamb among a lion. The low, meticulous voice is cultivated and pristine – but there is a factor of intimidation there, as well. Despite her excitement, she is smart enough to understand the initiative of caution.

When the man grasps her frail, extended hand and situates her into a seated position upon his lap, he wonders about the extent of the girl's intelligence. Even if it was lacking, something about her endeavor was almost endearing to him.

"Do you dream much, Abigail? Apart from those dreams relative to your father and Nicholas, I mean."

"Yesss," she hisses softly, playfully - situating herself more comfortably onto his lap, "I dream about you."

He smirks at her, the jutting cheekbones emphasizing his halfway-amused expression.

"And is that why you are acting so crude, dear girl? You wish to indulge your sexual fantasies, hmm?"

She knows her lids are fluttering much too fast. Despite the distortion of her vision, she can see the man before her clearly. Her thin torso leans forward against him, willing herself to capture those quirky lips of his with her own lightly trembling ones.

He holds her at a distance. She pouts.

"All in due time, Abigail."

" _Why_ won't you … "

She stops abruptly, taking in his stern demeanor. She quiets.

"Tell me about one of your fantasies. You may be as explicit as need be, but please refrain from exceptionally vulgar language. I won't have it."

She likes the way his hands rest at her waist; the digits massage her skin lightly through the cloth of her sweater and she cannot help but smile.

"You're a teacher – and  _I'm_  like a school girl," she giggles aloud, " _You_ know."

Hannibal pauses for a minute, contemplating the idea with a dark smirk.

"Such originality, dear girl," he comments with a hint of sarcasm, "Wherever did you pick that up from? An adult film? A friend of yours?"

"I don'tknow," her reply strained with longing, "I just think you'd be a reallygood teacher."

His light chuckle sends tingles down her spine.

He imagines the girl would likely identify him as such a figure; the poor girl obviously dealt with some authoritarian issues. He's aroused by the idea, admittedly – to have the frail yet surprisingly persistent girl dependent upon him in such an intimate way. With his investment in her more than piqued by this time, he finds that perhaps she'd actually benefit from her little role-playing idea.

"Shall I instruct you, Abigail?"

Her pale blue orbs brighten, "Yes!"

He squeezes her waist to prompt her to stand, refraining from shaking his head at her overexcited response. She stands up, stumbling backwards in light of her daze only a bit and he steadies her by the shoulders. Abigail beams up at him.

"In this metaphorical scenario of yours, my dear – what is it that you exude? Are you overly sexual? Naughty? Timid? What behavior do you wish to exhibit for me?"

She spreads her smile as wide as that of a Cheshire grin, "I  _cheated_  on a test. I'm in detention," she prompts, happily, "Go."

His lips purse at her instruction for a brief moment, nevertheless, he turns away from her. She's surprised when he takes to sitting at the desk in the corner of his room, looking at her expectantly with an amused gleam in his eye.

Her limbs feel numb from his silently insistent gaze. She wonders how on earth she'll ever manage to be  _sexy_ when daunted with the figure across the room. Perhaps it would be a little more difficult than she anticipated.

Or perhaps the drugs were making her lag. She agreed inwardly in compliance, yes – that _had_  to be it.

His long fingers intertwine with one another and rest to staple underneath his chin.

"Miss Hobbs," he draws out finely – articulately, enveloping her name with the suavity and warmth of his gorgeous Lithuanian accent to the point where she melts, "This is the second time you have been caught cheating."

She's surprised by how absolutely serious he plays the scenario.

"What's to be done about that?"

She smiles at him, approaching casually. Those words warm her flush to the core. She curses herself when she stumbles awkwardly, straightening her posture a split second later with a splotch of red overtaking the color of her cheeks.

"I'm soorry," she purrs, "It won't happen again."

The brunette finds herself resting a hand against the table in front of him, fingers tracing the wood lightly in a back in forth motion.

Not a spec of dust can be found.

"Is that so, Miss Hobbs? I find that hard to believe. Clearly, you weren't able to learn a single thing from the past instance."

She tilts her head, splaying a pair of small hands over the table top and leans forward so that her chest is more directly visible to him. She's seen it done in the movies. He raises a brow at her.

"Perhaps if you weren't so worried about flaunting about in that  _attire_ ," he directs, gesturing with a hand, "You'd be a bit more prone to studying for your exams. Don't you think so?"

"Maybe," she mumbles back innocently, dipping her head in mock-shame at the stern accusation.

" _Maybe_ ," he repeats, unamused and unconvinced.

"I'm going to have to insist you remove that outfit, Miss Hobbs."

"Excuse me?" and for an instant, she blanks.

"Remove it, please," he pauses for a moment, "Unless of course you'd prefer to extend the form of your punishment."

She releases a breath, and finds herself offering up a quirky grin. Her fingers are nimble to carry out with the request; she is sure the bright hot flush gracing her face has extended everywhere else on her body. Her skin is fairly pale, and she curses herself for having not visited a tanning bed like all of her other friends.

Hannibal Lecter is more than satisfied by the creeping red marring her skin, however. When she pulls the sweater over her head and the spill of her hair rests on bare shoulders, he finds himself standing up and approaching her.

"A moment, Miss Hobbs–" he insists with a pause, placing a hand on her feverant shoulder and taking in her still mostly-clad form with glinting eyes.

"Bend over that desk."

"What did I do?"

He raises a brow, "You're a naughty girl, Miss Hobbs. I believe we have already established that."

She enjoys the sensation of the cool desk upon her torso; she can feel the pressure of his hand on her back as he pushes her down onto it. The trace of his fingers scratch lightly down her spine before he removes his touch completely. She tries to remain as completely still as possible in anticipation, but the trembling factor of excitement makes it extremely difficult for the girl.

The chill air of the room spreads over exposed skin. She feels strong fingers tug at the loops on the sides of her jeans and soon the rest of her form is nipped by the sudden exposure. He doesn't make a single comment to her until the entirety of her pants and lacey black panties are nothing more than an askew pile on the floor.

"Now, you naughty little thing – how many swats do you think you deserve?"

"Uhmm….," she breathes - she can hardly believe she's heard him correctly. "Not too many. I… I'll be good," she insists, biting her lower lip lightly.

His scoff sends rivets through her, "Oh, no my dear," the trace of his hand rubs against the pale flesh – he pinches her lightly and she yelps from the unexpectedness.

A harsh follow up slap connects over the slightly reddened, pinched area and she yelps once more.

"How about we just go along until  _I've_  deemed that you've learned your lesson, hmm?"

"But, I'm –"

A resounding second smack sends a gasp of pain shooting to the sensitive area.

"There will be no arguing, Miss Hobbs. Now – are you going to stop being such a disobedient girl?"

"Yes," she chides him, feeling the flush of pain from a third smack soak into the core of her arousal. "I'll be a goood, I  _promise."_

He swats her ample behind several more times in quick succession, enjoying the sounds of her quick, exasperated breathing. He smirks when she begins to squirm underneath his touch; he has acute senses and can smell her arousal as easily as he can see the splotches of red dousing the pale skin of her backside.

She tenses when she feels his hand slip down, tracing her.

"You're enjoying this far too much, Miss Hobbs."

Another small sound soon merges into that of a moan.

"What was that noise you just made, my dear?"

She shakes her head incompetently, quickly earning another harsh swat to the opposing reddened cheek.

"What _was_  it?"

"A _moan_ ," she replies as calmly as she can, suppressing the hot swell within her – she can feel her stimulation spreading; she jumps when she feels the trouser-covered, hardening arousal of the impending figure behind her press against her. This was certain she could feel the wetness of her own arousal seeping from her core upon contact.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you? Well – a naughty girl would, I suppose," he points out.

In the next moment, she is standing up and turned by the shoulder around to face him. She feels a rush of excitement at having him so close to her; pressed nearly flushed against his form. His face is so close to hers she is certain he can make out the slightest bit of trembling that courses through her lower lip in anticipation.

"Are you sorry for what you have done?"

His hands expertly unclasp her bra and it falls to the side. She groans impatiently as he kneads the flesh of one mound. He doesn't stare at her figure as much as he watches the minute details of her face. She's chilled by the way his narrowed, dark gaze fixes itself to nothing more than that of her cool blue orbs. She swallows.

"I'm so so sorry. I'll _never_  do it again. I promise."

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin, "Of course you won't."

The feel of expensive fabric against her skin makes her itch in the good sort of way. With her back now pressed against the sturdy desk she relishes the sensations as he looms over her. He doesn't remove all of his clothing; the unbuttoned silk undershirt remains and she enjoys the soft texture. She tugs at it expectantly, lowering him upon her. He doesn't kiss her until the first thrust – and at that point it's made in an attempt to silence her excessively loud responses. Though he admits he enjoys them, the effects of the tea have surely diminished all sense of restraint from the young, adoring thing below him.

He brushes kisses along her collar bone – he even bites down, drawing bits of blood with the sharpness of his teeth; she does little more than writhe at the response. She allows it, and eventually giggles in that fluttering way of hers once again when more kisses scavenge the lightly bloodied patch of skin.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Abigail?"

Her expression is dreamy-eyed. Instilled with contentment. She watches the man gather her discarded clothing from the floor and extend it to her.

"Yesss. Hannibal."

She yawns; he purses his lips into a thin smile and raises his brow at her.

"Good. Perhaps we'll look into more of these dreams of yours in the morning."


End file.
